


let me hold your hand

by chininja



Series: your hope or mine [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But it gets better I promise, Dealing with grief and loss, F/M, Gen, it's mostly angsty, tw: death of a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 01:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15719322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chininja/pseuds/chininja
Summary: It’s a funny thing, time.For such an abstract thing, it occupies nearly everyone’s mind. There are so many sayings attached to it too –Time flies.Time is precious.Time is gold.Time heals all wounds.Jon and Sansa deal with the loss of a child and the all-consuming power of grief. But hope, they learn, is that much more potent.





	let me hold your hand

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that this probably won't be everyone's cup of tea. I mean, it's definitely not fluffy. But I had wanted to write a story that people can relate to, in one way or another. And I feel out of all the people I ship Sansa with, I thought Jon would be the best person to hold her hand and give her that support.
> 
> I also want to thank nocturnememory - you are a true friend lol. Home girl doesn't even watch GoT but volunteered to have a look at this fic and give suggestions as to how to tell it better. Thanks boo. :)

It’s a funny thing, time.

For such an abstract thing, it occupies nearly everyone’s mind. There are so many sayings attached to it too –

_Time flies._

_Time is precious._

_Time is gold._

_Time heals all wounds._

Almost everyone knows the last one – everyone who has been in pain or has been hurt would have had someone say that to them at one point or another. It’s not always helpful, but people rarely are, despite their good intentions.

But what if a grieving mother just wants time to stop?

Or her helpless husband wants it to move as fast as it can so that they won’t have to deal with the loss of a child?

Because Sansa just wants to put a stopper on time so she can hold her son for a little while longer, kiss his head, and tell him everything will be alright.

And Jon just wants to protect his wife from the pain she’s going through even if he can’t do anything about his.

What is time if not a reflection of one’s vulnerability and inability to move past the crippling power of grief?

They were good people, Sansa reasoned, her and Jon. She doesn’t understand why the God that was preached in church, the same God Sansa isn’t quite certain she still believes in, would single them out. “Was it not enough that you made it so hard for Jon and I to conceive, that you’ve taken away my child too?” Sansa hasn’t prayed in a long time, and hasn’t been inside a church for far longer. But she remembers a pastor once preached on the power of prayer. ( _“It’s our direct line of communication with the Almighty; it is because of His love that we can come into His presence.”_ )

What a load of crap.

 

_Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name_

Sansa was so confused and utterly devastated to learn that despite the obvious fertility of her own mother, that gene had apparently skipped her completely. She nearly gave up had it not been for Jon. “We’ll keep trying, I promise.” He says to her in the cover of the night, when they are alone, and her frustration runs free. “We’ll make it happen. Don’t you worry, darling.” The solemnity of a vow whispered in the dark, sealed with a kiss on her forehead. Sansa was caught up in her own emotions, she doesn’t get to fully absorb Jon’s words or the weight behind them.

But years later, when they have buried Rickard (their sweet, _sweet_ boy who was full of energy, full of life -), Sansa allows herself to be grateful.

Because at that moment, that night so many years ago, her husband teaches her to hope once more.

 

_Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven._

She’s in the prayer room that the hospital provides. It was so perfectly ordinary, no trace of prayers chanted in anguish, nor of tears shed. There isn’t a cross that hangs ominously in the middle, only a few cushions on one end and some pews to sit on the other. She never once thought she’d be among those who would come in for a last hail Mary of some sort. She didn’t realize how great of a motivator desperation can be until she was in a position where she would gladly give anything just so she can have her baby boy in her arms again.

Sansa fought for her child, every step of the way, Jon her lieutenant in championing for Ricky’s health. But somehow it wasn’t enough, _her_ fight wasn’t enough. And that hurt like hell, to know that she was lacking in trying to save her boy. _God is sovereign, Sansa_ . Miss Mordane’s words from Sunday school ring back in her ears. _And He is more than enough_.

So then why does He need to take Ricky away?

Why can’t He be contented with just Himself?

How can He stand to see His people in pain?

These are questions she asks herself, questions she doesn’t really care if they’re answered or not. Not anymore. Not when her boy is cold with a sheet covering his pale face, no trace of the joy she helped nurture for six years.

She doesn’t care for the answers, no. Not right now. But she is grateful that it becomes the channel with which she can direct her anger.

Sansa loses track of how long she’s been inside the room until Jon finds her kneeling in one of the cushions, her back bowed and her head between her knees. By the time that Sansa’s made aware of her position, she’s already in Jon’s arms. She clutches the front of his shirt, her tears staining it wet. “I just want the pain to be gone, Jon.” She pleads with her husband, tears clinging to lashes and a woundedness that seeks to engulf, shining through her eyes - less ice and more the sinking depths of the sea; stormy and yearning to overpower.

“I would if I could, sweetheart.” Jon’s voice breaks, and Sansa knows that her husband is barely holding it together. He holds her face in both of his hands, his forehead resting on hers.

“Don’t go, Jon.” Sansa whispers, nearly hysterical. “Don’t leave, please.” She doesn’t even look up anymore, just presses herself closer to his chest, wishing for one goddamn minute that the sting she feels deep in her gut goes away.

“For better or worse, remember?” Jon breathes her in, hoping that he can absorb everything that she’s feeling. Take in her burdens. “We’re in this, for better or worse.”

 

_Give us this day our daily bread_

They buried their boy on a fine Wednesday morning. The spring air was crisp, the sun beating down on their necks. But its heat was incomparable to the shattering of a world made, incomparable to that of a family in mourning. It was a fine day and they had laid their boy to rest _(“And there will be no more death or sorrow…”)._

Jon finds her in Ricky’s room later that week. Neither of them have been in it since the funeral service, only coming in and out to get their little boy’s suit for the open casket. Sansa is clutching Ricky’s blanket to her chest, it’s about the only item in the room that’s not in it’s right place. Everything else -

Jon worries his wife will make a shrine out of their son’s room; too painful to clean or be in. He’s at a loss on how to act around her. Their whole world as parents just crumbled but they deal with the aftermath in completely different ways. And how does anyone recover from that, really? Jon knows that the harsh truth about life is that time stops for no one. It doesn’t care to give anyone a moment to recover, to reel back from the emptiness one may feel - the space where one’s child might have occupied once upon a time.

“Darling,” his voice is a near whisper, afraid to disrupt whatever it is of his son’s that remains in his room.

He sees his wife startle in the slight stiffening of her shoulders. Sansa’s too consumed by her own thoughts to sense his presence. She lifts a finger and traces the little robots on the blanket, an incline of  her head is an indication that she heard him call.

“I was going to the store,” Jon’s feet scuffles, the carpet not quite absorbing the sound of his footfalls. “Did you want me to get something for you?” He sees the tear tracks on her face, and Jon can’t help the resigned way his shoulders droop. This is their new reality now, at least for a little while longer (he hopes), as they try to piece back what was broken. Sansa turns to look at him, recognition settling in her eyes.

“Hm, yeah. I stuck the list on the fridge earlier.” Her voice cracks - from lack of use, from crying, from not being able to sleep well since -

“But would you mind getting some of those animal crackers that Ricky likes too?” It is Jon’s turn to startle at his wife’s words, because surely neither of them need to be reminded of all that’s changed in their lives now. “Sansa, you know - “

“I know!” She doesn’t let him finish. Her voice is sharp, her eyes are piercing, and Jon feels the breath leave his lungs because all he sees is utter sorrow in them. Sansa closes her eyes, her fists are clenched on the bed covers. “I know it won’t bring him back.” Her words catch on a sob, and Jon could kick himself for being an ass and making his wife feel worse, even if it was unintentional.

He moves towards her and kisses her on the head. He mumbles a short, “I’ll be right back” into her hair. Jon lingers even after he says this; an apology, an effort to keep each other grounded. When he feels Sansa’s soft hand grip his, he knows his blunder is forgiven. He knows she’s asking for understanding in return. He burrows his nose further into the crown of her hair, as if their minds reach an agreement all on their own.

When he returns an hour later, bags of produce in his arms, he finds her in their backyard where some of Ricky’s toys still remain scattered while her fingers run through Ghost’s fur. And as they both put the groceries away, neither of them make mention of the three boxes of animal crackers that end up in the back end of the pantry.

 

_And forgive us our trespasses_

Jon takes advantage of Arya taking Sansa out for lunch that afternoon. Arya who’s just turned five months pregnant was at first hesitant to spend time with her sister. She naturally thought that being with Sansa while in her state would just rub salt into her very open, very bloody wound. And the younger woman was tense around her sister in a way that she hasn’t been since they were teenagers. She opted instead to have Jon or her partner Gendry with them at all times to diffuse any tension. Sansa noticed of course, and confronted her about it.

_“Why are you trying to avoid being alone with me?” It’s been four months since they buried their kid, and Jon stops at the sound of his wife’s voice. She sounded upset, but mostly confused._

_He hears a huff, and when he takes a peek, sees that Arya is sitting on their bed and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I just didn’t want to make you feel bad, Sanny.” Arya says as she fingers that end of her braid._

_“Why would I be upset?”_

_“I just didn’t want my own pregnancy to make you feel worse.” His sister-in-law’s voice is soft and tiny in a way that is so unlike her boisterous self._

_Jon sees his wife take a seat next to her sister, turning Arya to face her. “Look here Arya underfoot.” A previous insult turned into a term of endearment between the two. “Since the moment I found out you were going to be a mother, I have always been happy for you. You and Gendry are going to be great parents.” His wife’s blue eyes are soft as she looks at her sister, a mixture of fondness and sadness on her face._

_Arya leans her forehead on her sister’s shoulder. “Still,” she mumbles into Sansa’s cardigan. “I’m so sorry Sansypants.”_

_“I know you are bub.” Sansa exhales and flicks Arya’s braid lightly._

Jon’s gathered some empty boxes they kept in the garage. It pains him to have to walk by Ricky’s room and sees his things still in their place but having none of his presence. He knows Sansa’s going to be livid with him when she finds out, but Jon feels that it has to be done.

They can’t go on living with the ghost of their son looming over them.

He can’t keep wishing for his son to pick his favorite toy up and start playing.

He swears he’ll go crazy if he doesn’t do this. So he puts away the toys in the boxes first, those at the bottom shelf. He takes his time as he does so, as if he’s personally saying goodbye to each item in his son’s room. He moves to Ricky’s closet next, putting his clothes away and thinking he could probably drop them off at the shelter without alerting his wife.

He’s in the middle of pulling away the bed covers when Sansa’s shriek stops him.

“What the fuck are you doing!” His wife was a hurricane headed towards him. She snatches the covers from his grasp, her bag thrown haphazardly behind her. She fixes Ricky’s bed just like when she used to and as she turns around, she sees the other boxes filled with his things. “What are you doing?” She turns to him, eyes ablaze with rage. “Why are you putting all his things away?!” Jon’s never seen her this mad - not even when he thought he lost his wedding ring that one time.

“We can’t turn his room into a museum, San,” he responds softly. His hurt has always been a quiet one, but this was one way Jon knew would help him heal.

“I’m not fucking done grieving.” She grits back, her eyes are hard against him. “You maybe, but I’m not.” She throws the words at his face like they’re nothing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He’s careful not to take the obvious bait for a fight. Jon knows it wasn’t going to help them any.

“I mean,” she stalks forward in his direction. “I’m not done mourning the son I lost. I still feel it keenly in my bones as if it just happened today.” She’s trembling, he notices. Her hands flexing as if she would very much like to slap something or, Jon thinks, him. “I mean, every time I think about my son, I feel like I want to fucking die.”

“You think I’m not goddamn distraught like you are? You think I don’t feel his loss in my gut?” His voice rising, feels his control slipping from him. “Let me tell you, it’s the first damn thing I feel when I wake up and the last damn thing I think about before going to bed!” Jon narrows his eyes at her. “Just because I don’t cry every second of every goddamn day, doesn’t mean I don’t hurt, Sansa. You’re not the only parent here who lost a child.”

“San?” Whatever Sansa wanted to say next dies on her lips when she hears her sister call. She stares at him one last time before she goes to Arya. But before she could leave Ricky’s room, her sister comes in and holds out a take away bag in her hands. “You forgot this in the car…” she trails off. Context and the couple’s body language tell Arya that she interrupted something. “Or I can just leave this on the table and leave now?” She turns and starts to waddle her way out of the room.

“Hey can I sleep over at your place tonight?” Sansa tries to keep her voice from being cold. But she’s too hot and too angry to stay in the house with Jon. Arya flicks her eyes between the two and as she sees Jon rub the bridge of his nose and nod slightly, she acquiesces. “Sure, I just had the guest room cleaned anyway.” There’s confusion in her face and could only hazard a guess as to the cause of the fight.

“Great, I’ll meet you in the car. I just need to pack a bag.” Sansa doesn’t look over to Jon when she leaves the room.

Neither does she say goodbye when she rides in Arya’s car.

 

Jon stirs awake when he feels a nose on his neck. Sansa ended up staying at Arya’s place for three days, and in that time, the only message he received from his wife was a brief text telling him she’s fine and she needs time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. It is six in the morning, he’s barely awake, but he hears Sansa’s apology clearly as if it were shouted. Jon lifts her hands that have settled on his stomach so that he could turn on his other side to face her.

He sees  her bite her lips to keep them from trembling, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from watering. When she blinks, a tear spill over onto her cheeks. “I-I don’t want to forget him, Jon. I don’t want to live my life like he never existed.” She’s shaking and her hands are crossed over her heart, clenching her dress into a wrinkled mess.

“I’m sorry too. But we also can’t keep living like there’s no life after him.” He brushes her hair back away from her face. Sansa leans into his touch and moves closer to him, rubbing her forehead into his chest. “I don’t know how we can move on from this.” She mutters into his shirt, her hands gripping his back.

“Neither do I,” Jon’s hands are in her hair, clutching her to him. “But we need to do something.” He whispers into the darkness of their room, not unlike that time some years ago when he promised her they’ll keep working on having a family.

“Arya said we were being stupid.” she whispers back.

“That sounds like her,” Jon snorts. “She say anything else?”

“Yeah,” Sansa loosens her grip on his back and moves her hand over his heart. “She says we should just be honest with how we’re feeling, as we feel them.” Sansa tilts her face up to look at him, scratching his beard with her fingers. “Instead of bottling them up.”

“A wise woman, your sister.” Jon chuckles. “Who knew?”

Sansa’s answering giggle felt like a balm to Jon’s wounds. And when he reaches for her hand to hold, he releases a breath when she laces their fingers together.

 

_As we forgive those who trespassed against us_

They arrived at their gate early, not even close to the boarding time. But Jon has had a rough few days at work prior, that Sansa took pity on him and said that he should just take a nap while they wait for the gate to open. Her poor husband nearly worked himself to the bone trying to finish all that his clients needed of him ahead of time just so he could focus on just the two of them during this trip. Besides, she wasn’t feeling up to do some airport shopping anyway.

She’s in the middle of reading her book, Jon’s head leaning against her temple, when she sees a woman shushing her baby. It still makes her heart ache when she sees children with their parents. She still aches for her and Jon to have a child again, that Sansa thinks she feels the twinge right in the sinews of her muscles. She wants her arms to be occupied with a squirming newborn eager to make contact with their mother’s warm skin.

The mother catches her staring, an upturn in her mouth as she looks at Sansa. Embarrassed at her lack of courtesy, Sansa gives a tiny smile herself. “Sorry for staring,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. She tries to be mindful of Jon’s fatigue, after all. “But you have a beautiful baby. How many months is she?” Sansa observes as the mother preens, taking the compliment for herself as well as for the baby. She runs her index finger over a button nose and Sansa sees the baby girl’s eyes cross briefly, trying to follow her mother’s finger. “She’s just turned six months yesterday.” The unbridled joy in this woman’s voice makes Sansa’s throat constrict a little, her nose tingle, and her eyes sting. She keeps them at bay, thankfully.

The jealousy that she feels, on the other hand. That is carefully locked away. _Keep it together Sansa,_ she tells herself.

“Would you like to hold her?” The mother asks her. Her blue eyes are tired, probably in need of a little shut eye herself. But Sansa notices that they are undeniably kind, as though this woman Sansa just met wants to share some of the happiness that she feels blessed enough to share.

Sansa wants to. She really, truly wants to. But she does not trust herself to hold it together once she has a baby in her arms. “I’d love to,” she starts, her face apologetic. “But I’m trying to give my husband a break. Poor guy’s been up since 3 in the morning.” She lifts the shoulder that isn’t used as a pillow in a small shrug. “Ad agencies, y’know?” She wants to be nonchalant about this, but the hammering of her heart calls her a liar. How truly insane, that just the thought of being able to hold another child excites her so much?

They exchange some more pleasantries before mother and child move to where the rest of their brood are. And Sansa wishes, not for the first time since Ricky passed, that she and Jon would have another child again.

She picks up her book which lay forgotten, when an elderly woman in her sixties sits in front of her and Jon. The woman smiles at her, and Sansa smiles back briefly before turning to her reading material. “You two make quite a picture. Are you two newlyweds?” the woman asks.

Guess she won’t be doing much reading after all.

Sansa gives a stuttered laugh, awkward beyond all reason. “No,” she almost shakes her head in response, but remembers her slumbering husband who is practically on top of her right side. “We’ve been married eight years.” She looks at his mop of curls and Sansa can’t help the soft smile that graces her face. The last few months were shitty as hell, but Sansa knows that she would’ve given up a long time ago had it not been for her husband’s love, support, and perseverance.

“Oh are the both of you going on a second honeymoon then?” She’s prying, this woman. And Sansa never understood why most older women think they have license to ask about a stranger’s personal life. “Kids being cared for by your relatives?” Her smile is kind, but Sansa feels less at ease with this woman than with the mother and child from earlier.

Sansa sucks in a breath to try to calm her nerves. She thinks back to months earlier where she would’ve slapped this woman for asking, screamed at her and pulled her hair in rage. _You don’t know!_ Sansa screams internally. _You don’t know the hell I’ve been through, still going through!_ But she restrains herself, feels herself lose all the polite warmth she usually has for strangers.

“Why does a handsome couple like yourself not have kids yet? Surely you want children of your own?” _This woman is relentless._ She’s so tired of the same question she gets badgered with ever since she and Jon found out they would have a hard time conceiving. Her manners remain impeccable as always, but there’s a definite lack of warmth in her tone now. “I do actually.” She says as a polite coolness settles over her features. “But my husband and I had a hard time conceiving. I miscarried a couple of times before I gave birth to a son, whom we buried about ten months ago.”

The lady looks so stricken, so unexpecting of the response she was given, that all she could do was mumble a quiet apology before leaving Jon and Sansa on their own.

They haven’t even left Winterfell yet, but already it was starting out to be a shitty vacation.

 

_Lead us not into temptation_

They’re in the backyard, each with a cold glass of lemonade. They’ve managed to put Ricky’s toys back in the bin, but it remains open and stored beside the porch swing. Much like with anything related to his things, neither of them could find it within themselves to close it and put it away. They have a long way to go, Sansa surmised, on this arduous road to healing.

“Do you ever wish you could go back in time and change everything?” Sansa’s question breaks through the silence that settles upon them both. It was a muggy afternoon, the heat and humidity making them lazy. She’s stretched her legs over his lap, and when he takes too long to answer, she nudges him with a toe.

Jon doesn’t answer at first, places a warm hand on her foot and rubs it absentmindedly. “Not really,” he says. He looks over at the playground he built for his boy, and Jon is seized with the realization that it wouldn’t be put to use - not in a long time, possibly not ever. He clenches his eyes at the thought. Willing it away, he turns to Sansa instead. “No use in wishing for something that can’t happen.” He gives her a shrug because at thirty-three, he’s learned that it just hurts more to hold onto something that can’t be undone. “Why, was there something that you wanted to change?” Jon asks as his finger flit from one toe to another.

“My genes, definitely.” Her response was lightning quick that Jon coughs out a laugh for it. The ease and lightness was a surprise. The laughter even more so.

He missed her eye-crinkling smile.

She missed his deep-belly laughter.

“Jon?” she asks him when their laughter has died down. His head leans against the back of the swing, his eyes are shut, and there is a certain kind of satisfaction in his face that Sansa wants to make permanent. She reaches over to him and scratches her nails lightly over his scalp. She doesn’t bother hiding her grin when her husband practically purrs like a cat. (Even Ghost’s ears perked up at the sound his human was making.) Her husband hums in response when she tugs on one of his curls.

“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t Ricky’s mom.” His eyes snap open at her confession, and he faces her a little more fully. Jon’s had a hunch that her sadness ran deeper than just the actual passing of their son. He never imagined, however, that this was  something she even thought about. He takes both her hands and keeps them in his, silently urging her to continue. He needs to understand why she would say something like this, because Jon witnessed everything - every moment Sansa was with their child. From the moment Ricky drew his first breath up until he breathed his last, his wife was a magnificent mother.

“I wish he was born to a mother who didn’t have crappy genetics.” Her brows are furrowed, like she’s reaching for something that’s just a little bit out of her grasp. “I keep thinking that if it were another woman, maybe Ricky would be running in the garden or playing that god awful song that he likes so much.” She takes a breath and her hands fidget within his, but Jon just closes his over them more firmly as he rubs small circles at the back of her hand with his thumbs.

“Sansa,” his deep voice is a rumble, but it gets her attention. “If Ricky were born to another woman, he wouldn’t be ours.” Dove grey meet ice blue, Jon imploring her to understand that _it was never her fault_.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t have had a child.” She leans her head back and looks up to the ceiling. It’s just one of the questions that eat away at her, and Jon hates that Ricky’s death has caused her to question her value as a mother.

“Would you look at me please?” He pleads with her because it’s important she understands - that neither of them are at fault, and that neither of them could’ve done anything to prevent Ricky from getting sick. Sansa slowly levels her tilted face to look him in the eyes. “You were a great mother with our son. I saw it in the happiness that he just naturally exuded.” He’s moved closer to her now so that his hand is cupping her cheek. “And if by chance we were to have another baby again, you’d be a great mother then too. Shitty things happen, babe.” It is Jon’s brows that are now furrowed with the effort of trying to convince her. “I wish there was an explanation why this happened to us, one that we could wrap our heads around. But until then, you have me. And I’m not going to let you think that you were anything less than the perfect mother.”

The stifling weather turned gloomy, the humidity finally transforming into much needed precipitation. But even when the rain finally stopped, Sansa continued to weep - not just for the boy that she lost, but for the mother she thought so little of. All the while, her husband’s arms keep her in his embrace.

 

_But deliver us from evil_

It is exactly a year after his death when Jon and Sansa visit Ricky’s grave. They’ve tried to avoid being there, only visiting to make sure the grave is clean, but they both don’t want to be confronted by how short his life was. Now though, they’re both optimistic that the heartbreak over their son won’t haunt them too much.

It was time to confront those feelings anyway.

“Have you got the flowers?” Sansa asks him as he closes the trunk of their car. He raises the small pot in response and they head towards Ricky’s headstone. “And the - “ Jon raises the paperbag in his left hand. “Candles too. I got them.”

They walk quietly, allowing the breeze to wash over them. Sansa was carrying a blanket and a basket of food for this visit. She loved the idea of having a picnic in Ricky’s grave after reading about how it was a common practice in some Asian countries.

They weren’t sure how long they would stay there, not having a point of reference or anything. But despite that, they had a lovely time. Sansa, Jon had observed, looked at peace being in the cemetery - as morbid as it sounds. But there was a lightness that seemed to have surrounded her. He catches her smoothing her hand over the headstone every once in a while, a wistful look upon her face. Jon was cautiously optimistic that healing was taking place. He allowed himself to think that his wife was finally reaching a point of acceptance.

“Mom and dad miss you so much, Ricky.” Sansa’s soft voice catches his attention.

“Every single day, buddy.” Jon supplies, his hand a warm comfort on Sansa’s back.

The two of them basically had a date at their son’s grave and it garnered a few strange looks from passersby. Neither of them paid those any attention. Jon and Sansa talked, occasionally addressing their son as if he was with them, until their food was gone - even Ricky’s animal crackers. When they’ve made sure that his grave was clean and that the candles were still lit, Jon and Sansa get up to leave.

They both brush the headstone as if they were brushing Ricky’s curly hair with their hands.

“We love you, bud.” Jon says as he kneels on the grass.

“We’ll visit you again soon, okay baby?” The tears she’s successfully held at bay the entire visit catch up to her now. Jon worries at first that the picnic had backfired on them.

But when he looks at his wife, he stops. There is a smile on Sansa’s face despite the tears.

And for the first time in a long time, Jon allows himself to hope again.

 

_For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory_

It takes them a couple of years before either of them can feel any true semblance of normalcy again. Ricky’s absence is still felt, but at least they can both enter his room now to do a little more than cleaning. They take it a day at a time. Ever since their fight, they were both slow to put his things away in boxes. Maybe, sometime soon, they could find another use for the room or a young boy to give the toys to.

The house was so much quieter those first few months, a kind of quiet that pushes you back into a corner and closes in on you from all sides. But they gave it their best effort, her and Jon, to not let it take them. They’re still Jon and Sansa, but they’re also far from the couple they were before everything happened. They’re not as idealistic as they used to be, and they’re wiser for it. But it still affected how intimate they were with each other.

How could it not, after what they’ve been through?

But it wasn’t just physical. They had to relearn how to be honest with each other, be vulnerable with each other. They had to learn to put their walls down when it was just them. They had to remember that they were husband and wife still, and not just _mom and dad_ . Life goes on, time waits for no one, and _mom and dad_ need to make space for _Jon and Sansa_ again.

They both put in the effort - they go on dates, they stay in, they spend as much time as they can together. The fight helped, the vacation helped. Even that afternoon in their backyard helped them both remember how to be a couple again.

They still think about their son constantly, little things that get them wondering what it would be like if he was still with them. But as they continue to move forward, Jon and Sansa realize that they are no longer debilitated by grief.

They have so much love in their hearts for a child, and perhaps someday, they could have that again.

_Amen_

.

.

.

_They say, when you stop trying, that’s when you get blessed with a child._

Sansa has felt a little strange over the last couple of weeks. Her breasts felt tender, strong scents turn her stomach, and she’s just tired all the time. It’s almost as if she’s -

 _But it couldn’t be_ , she thinks to herself. Sansa’s so bewildered, she doesn’t really deal with it until she notices that she’s _still_ tired, and her breasts have gotten just a little bit bigger. And so she grabs a pregnancy test (or two) on her way home, from the pharmacy. She greets Jon with a distracted kiss on the cheek and heads straight for the bathroom.

Just two minutes and she’ll know for sure, and when the timer goes off,

_A fluttering in her stomach, a warmth in her chest._

“J-Jon,” Sansa stammers. They say seeing is believing, but even as two pink lines stare back up at her, Sansa can only think that her eyes are playing tricks on her. Her husband hums in response, his eyes glued to the game. Sansa steps out of their bathroom and looks at him with wide, blue eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”

Jon’s eyes wide. “A-are you sure?” And Sansa brings out the other pregnancy test in her hands, “I peed twice just to make sure.” She looks just as disbelieving as him. She’s barely put the tests down on their dresser when Jon rushes to her side and kisses her soundly.

There it is, in both their eyes.

_Hope -_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. That bit about the pastor talking about prayer didn't actually come from a pastor. My spiritual mentor mentioned that to me a few years back, lol.  
> 2\. That conversation between Sansa and the nosy woman in the airport was something I saw in a tweet actually. And I guess I'm just very passionate about not being a nosy bitch when it comes to other people? You don't know what people are going through, so stop forcing your idealism on them.  
> 3\. Growing up in an Asian country, that bit about having picnics during the day of the dead is true. It was fun, we ate a lot and we celebrated the life of those that had gone ahead of us. (But also, this is deeply rooted in ancestor worship lol).
> 
> So there. If you liked this fic, please tell me by leaving a comment. Feedback too would be most welcome :)


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